I remember a name from my past, so I decide to “Google it.” R-o-l-a-n B-o-l-a-n. Right into the search engine it goes. How apropos as I’m listening to The Slider by T-Rex (“Chariot Choogle” to be exact). I click on the “images” tab and suddenly, a flood of pictures of Marc Bolan’s son come popping up, like weeds. One of my ex-boyfriends was really good friends with this guy. He’s not that much older than me, but through pedigree, he is and always will be, infinitely cooler.

This got me thinking about all the children of legendary rock stars and artists just walking around on this earth. Sean Lennon (son of that Lennon) once autographed a copy of his debut CD for me then told me he liked my glasses. I remember that moment because it was my version of meeting the Beatles themselves. I nearly fainted when he spoke to me. I clammed up and could barely make eye contact with him. This was weird for me. I’m a total super-fan, but rarely am I star-struck to that extent.

I remember watching Imagine: John Lennon every afternoon my freshman and sophomore years of high school. I was fixated and awe-struck by the amazing magnetism of John and Yoko. I think both will go down in history as two of the most important figures of the 20^th century. Yet, their collective DNA is just walking around New York and L.A., living his life. Dating hot chicks. Making killer music. Just being Sean.

I’m so envious of people with famous parents. I’d give anything to look at my mom and dad with a sense of pride for what they’ve accomplished in life. Sure, people will argue that it’s no cakewalk being a chip off the old block—especially if you’re a less-dynamic chip. But still, it’s got to feel nice having a legacy like that.

I want that for my kids someday. I want them to go through life knowing that they were squeezed out by someone who mattered, man. It would be cool to see my son or daughter on some talk show years from now, discussing the great birthday party surprise I gave him as a little one. Or how interesting it would be to watch my kid discuss my work and speak about me with a glow of reverence.

Gotta get on that. Tick-tock, tick-tock…

Lately, I’ve had these vivid fantasies of marrying someone like Todd Phillips or Michael Angelakos; guys who are clearly brilliant at directing and singing, respectively. Thinking about how badass it would be to pass the best of myself along to someone I adore while having him do the same. What kind of parents would we be? I’m sure I’d be the fun one—the mother who teaches the kid about good music and skateboarding; fashion and filmmaking. And hubby would be the type to imbibe in our progeny his trade and brilliant skills.

Then at night, my beloved and I will lay in our bed, as I scratch his shirtless back and he tickles my toes with his own, musing about what great progress the kid is making in life. Discussing proudly all the accomplishments that junior is liable to achieve and feeling that we sent him or her off into the world with the best possible start we could give.

When I look at these pictures of Bolan, that’s what I think his parents did for him.

Or at least, what they wanted to do. You know, before the accident.¤